


The Faerie and the Raven

by wearethewitches



Category: Maleficent (Disney Movies)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Family, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Magic, Magical Accidents, Miscommunication, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:48:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24259156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: When a stranger falls out of the sky and time itself, it is up to Diaval to piece together the true circumstances of her arrival. But when he comes to a conclusion he doesn't want to believe, he has to put aside his feelings.For in what world would Maleficent ever have a child with a raven?
Relationships: Diaval/Maleficent (Disney)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 90





	1. Chapter 1

The sky fills with purple fire, blazing across the deep blue and hiding all the stars from sight. Below, in the warm earth of the Moors, the faerie folk rise from slumber and stretch upright, the flames reflecting in the eyes of wallerbogs, pixies and mushroom faeries alike.

From the boughs of an alder tree, for once parted from his Mistress, Diaval the shape-changer caws and flutters out of his nest, peering up at the discoloured sky. In his raven-form, Diaval stretches his wings, then takes flight towards the epicentre of the blaze, which forms a whirling tempest in the deepest of blacks, crackling lightning flaring out into other clouds, like the roots of a tree.

Diaval thinks to himself that this is magic of a strange sort _._ He knows it is not the magic of Maleficent, in all her golds and greens – and lately, fire ambers, from the flame of the Phoenix – and so he is cautious in his approach, even as he ignores all his corvid instincts to fly in the opposite direction.

The flames do not last forever. Halfway from his tree to the eye of the storm, the flames peter out, the last of the lightning fading. A dark miasma is left in the sky and even that grows smaller and smaller, until all that is left is a falling form of what Diaval recognises to be a Dark Faery.

Magic ripples through his wings. _I cannot let them fall, whomever they are,_ he thinks and calls upon the gift Maleficent has given him, since their fledgling took her third crown among Men. Raven wings blur to bone and sinew, stretching out and out as his body grows longer and wider – the Dragon diving fast and low, catching the unconscious faery in his claws before they can hit the ground.

The faery does not stir in his grasp. A rumble grows in Diaval’s chest as he flies down to a wide embankment, upon which many picnics and parties have been held, letting the faery gently tumble onto long grass and daisy-flowers. His transformation from dragon to Man-shape takes even less time than Raven to Dragon did, unfamiliar garments encasing his legs, chest, arms and torso; Diaval has not had a moment to change what clothes his Man-shape takes since the christening of Aurora’s third son. He’s still in the rich fabrics of a lord, sable though they might be.

At least he has his staff. Diaval always had thought the bust replica of his raven-self looked gorgeously intimidating.

Kneeling in front of the unconscious faery, staff held ready in his grasp, Diaval can’t help the immediate frown the forms on his forehead, brows creasing as he sees the tumbling black waves of hair hiding her face – and she is a she, that is most clear. It is a strange characteristic for one of a race that does not typically have curls, especially when combined with the curved horns of a Forest Fae and those glossy black wings she possesses. They match the miasma from the sky in shade, but Diaval can see surface similarities between the faery and Maleficent, herself – a peculiarity, when Maleficent is the last of the line of the Phoenix.

Another suspicion noted, Diaval reaches to turn her over, brushing hair away from her cheek. Sharp cheekbones jut out, edges sharp. Diaval’s frown deepens and behind him, he hears the familiar beat of Maleficent’s wings.

“Who is she?”

Diaval does not look away from the stranger. “I know not their face. Should we not know them, if your people are so few?”

 _“Hm,”_ Maleficent hums, judging. Feathers brush Diaval’s shoulder as she kneels down beside him, her wings settling on the grass at her back while she fearlessly presses them against him. As always, Diaval is silent at her trust; he has never seen her so casual with her wings, with another. Not even their girl and her fledglings. “She is… _somewhat familiar.”_

“Aye, I see it, too,” confirms Diaval, before he places his staff fully on the ground and reaches forwards, manhandling the young faery, who doesn’t look to be much older than Aurora was when marrying Phillip. He pulls her wings out from their uncomfortable positionings, splaying them out and keeping his hands to himself otherwise, keeping the itch to groom the ruffled feathers to himself. Once her wings are dealt with, her tucks her arms beneath her head and body and frowns at the cord around her neck.

Reaching for it, Diaval unravels the decorations, recognising not only the two feathers belonging to himself and Maleficent – to great distress, he might add, as Maleficent does not give up her feathers lightly – but also piece of amber, infused with a very particular sort of magic. It’s the sort of magic that tastes like the smoke from a green-leaved bonfire and the love and warmth of a kiss to Aurora’s forehead.

In other words, the magic is of Maleficent.

“What is that?” She asks, eyes glued to the artefact that he gingerly drops to the ground by the young faery woman’s closed eyes. Like Diaval, Maleficent senses what is her own. A glimmer of orange-gold seeps across the grass, lighting the faery’s pale skin from within. _“Wake.”_

With a gasp, she awakens, wings fluttering once before stilling in place. Eyelids slide open, black orbs the same shade as his own scanning the terrain. Her hands, bunched beneath her as they are, push upwards and it brings their faces within two feet of each other. Diaval wonders if they are too close, then banishes the thought from his mind; she has not attacked them, as of yet. They have nought to fear.

“What is your name?” Maleficent demands, voice sharp and clear. The faery looks her way, a childish hurt clear on her face.

“I- What? How- who-” She stutters, then stops, drawing breath through painted lips of green and white before looking to Diaval, whose frown has lifted, a mask of nonchalance replacing what visible opinion he had prior. “I do not understand. Did the magic not work? The Moors were meant to be protected from me – I was not meant to survive.”

“Survive _what?”_ Maleficent queries, “And who _are_ you?”

The hurt on her pale face turns into a flinch as she draws backwards, wings dragging as she edges away from them, pressing up the stone at her back. Neither Maleficent nor Diaval move an inch.

“She will not ask again,” warns Diaval.

The faery woman slides a hand over her face, pressing into her eye sockets as if to hold back tears. She says, struggling, “My name is Malora. I was poisoned with dark magic by a witch. It infected my magic and everything I touched started to-” and the faery woman, Malora, shudders at her own memories.

“What happened?” Maleficent asks her, voice softer, lower, encouraging her to speak and tell them the circumstances of the purple flame. Diaval has heard that voice many times and he knows it comes with sympathy, though with the edge still there, he knows her compliance has not yet been secured. He follows suit – though part of him is reaching, feeling something strange inside.

Diaval wants to trust her, he realises. He looks at her and in the depths of his chest, knows she deserves his protection. It is a smouldering ember that could easily turn into wildfire. Why does he care so much? Diaval does not know – but he intends to find out.

Malora looks at them through the splay of her hand, fearful and still so upset, for reasons they cannot guess. “The poison was not able to be removed. I was infecting the Moors and I could not allow that. So I stole the witch’s power and used it to destroy myself. Obviously, it did not work.”

“Obviously,” repeats Maleficent, “for you are here. Your arrival coincided with a purple flame that lit the sky.”

“Purple flame.” Malora murmurs, loud enough to be heard. She slumps, bedraggled, against the stone. “That is of the witch. I do not feel her magic within me. It was a constant burn…”

“Let me see,” orders Maleficent and the faery woman does not protest, reaching out her hand without thought to what Maleficent could do to her. Diaval watches his Mistress take her outstretched limb, golden magic creeping up over Malora’s arm in dusty tendrils. It startles Diaval when Malora relaxes, smiling, a magic of a different sort but same colour reaching out to entwine with Maleficent’s own. For her part, Maleficent is enraptured.

“You are like me,” says the Guardian of the Moors in a hush. “You are strong and bold – powerful in your own right.”

“Thank-you. I had the most loving teacher.” Malora closes her eyes and for the longest moment, she is wrapped in gold; but then comes the moment where Maleficent pulls her magic back, fond smile turning forlorn.

“There is an echo of a darkness, but it is just that, an after-image of something terrible. Do not fear it, for it cannot harm you nor anything else in this world.” Their hands part. Diaval watches Malora as she reaches for her amber-feather necklace, clutching it in both palms, her expression as if the world is falling apart and she can only watch. It is sad and it makes Diaval angry, for reasons he does not understand.

“Who might you call family, here?” Diaval asks her, impromptu. “We do not know your face or your name, young one.”

Another flinch. Malora shakes her head, left hand coming to rest over the mossy ground. Diaval watches her glance at it, golden magic flickering and sinking, deep into the earth; Maleficent would know what she does for sure, but Diaval feels as if she is being welcomed. The magic of the Moors is powerful and ancient in its own right – and it does not react to Malora as if she is some new element.

Malora belongs in the Moors, of that, Diaval is sure.

“The land knows you,” says Maleficent, her intrigue and curiosity clear. “But you _are_ unfamiliar and I would know if one of your power lived amongst the Dark Fae.”

The other faery draws her hand back against her chest. “I sought to erase myself from the world. It seems I have done too well a job, if even the great Maleficent does not recognise me. I know you,” Malora looks to them, “I know you _both._ I hail from the Moors. I was born here.”

“You seem too old to be born in the Moors itself,” Diaval notes, saying, “It has only been nine years since the Dark Faeries arrived.”

“Nine years?” She startles, eyes flickering between them, a suppressed sort of joy or disbelief turning her dark eyes a bright, pine-green, before settling back to sable. “Erasing myself…oh, how cruel, how _awful._ ” Her expression twists once more and Malora curls her knees into her chest, wings primed to cocoon herself.

Diaval does not understand. Knelt in the long grasses, uneven ground roughing his knees through his leather trousers, the shape-changer looks to his Mistress. There is a glimmer of understanding in her eyes.

“Time is stable,” she says. “Erasing ones self is impossible for true. I expect you are to be born a year hence, yes?”

“Indeed.”

“A year hence?” Diaval squawks, losing track of the conversation.

Maleficent shifts, looking to him as she explains tartly, “The world cannot have two of one person and magic, no matter how powerful, cannot make the world accept none, where a hole has already been formed. Malora has travelled to before she has been conceived and is filling the hole that she would have come to exist in, as a baby in her parents’ arms.”

“I’ve travelled through time, through the years, Lord Diaval,” says Malora, adding a crucial detail that previously escaped him. Awed at the very idea, Diaval rears back, tilting in his kneeling position to the point that he nearly falls onto his behind.

Maleficent traps his arm in her grasp, holding him steady. “You have deprived your family of you.”

“…yes,” agrees Malora, after a long moment. Her fist clenches around her necklace. “I do not know if I would do it again. Is this more cruel than dying and letting them live with the knowledge that they could not save me?”

“More cruel? No. A staggeringly egotistical move? _Yes.”_ Despite her reply, Maleficent is not angry. Diaval knows it, for her posture indicates just how unbothered she is by Malora’s new existence in their world. Her voice becomes lecturing as she tells Malora her demands. “You will not tell any others the truth of your untimely arrival. You will not answer questions when pressed.”

“And what will the truth be to others, instead?” Malora questions, the hint of reprimand clear to Diaval. As expected, Maleficent bristles, mouth forming a hard line.

“There will be no other truth. You will say that I have bound you to silence on the matter.”

“I see,” says Malora, voice crisp. But while Diaval thinks she might fight Maleficent on the matter through posturing, if nothing else, like before, she accepts Maleficent’s word as law. There is no arguing nor any sign that Malora would ever do anything but say true to Maleficent’s commands.

From the sky, Diaval hears more wingbeats, strong and quick; around them, up in the sky, fly the Desert Fae, circling them like prey. Borra, along with his two commanders, all fly down to land in a semi-circle at Malora’s back – though once again, she does not posture. It is strange to Diaval, who would have thought as a stranger surrounded by warriors, ready to attack at a single command, that Malora does not do anything bar crane her neck to look at them.

“Borra,” Maleficent welcomes him kindly.

“Phoenix,” he greets in turn, eyes turning on Malora. “Is this the cause of the flames in the sky?”

“She does not mean us harm,” tells Diaval, teeth already bared in a poor facsimile of a smile. Borra mirrors him. Neither bird nor faery have ever gotten along with the other.

“That is not up to you, crow.”

 _“Raven,”_ Diaval corrects, as per usual. It says something for how long they have been warring against each other that neither rises to the bait, instead waiting for Maleficent to speak.

His Mistress rolls her eyes, then stands tall, wings flaring. “She is no danger to the Moors or its people. She will be joining us, as one of our brethren. Heed my words, however – the circumstances of her arrival are not to be discussed.” Maleficent levels a glare at each of the Moors’ defenders, getting two bowed heads and one long gaze, before Borra swiftly nods. Diaval watches him walk forwards, looming over Malora from the stone at her back and gazing down at her with a particular sort of menace that Maleficent hisses at.

_“Leave her be!”_

Hand outstretched, Diaval murmurs, “Come here,” not expecting Malora to eagerly rush into his personal space, allowing him to help her to her feet. They stand close, breathing the same air and Malora looks up at him with…with _something._ Diaval does not know how to name it.

But whatever it was, it’s apparent that he didn’t react the right way, because everything about her wilts, before she steps away from him with a murmured _thank-you._

“You may stay with me, tonight,” says Maleficent, her words aimed at Malora. “I will lead the way. We will talk more in my home. Diaval-”

“Oh, I will follow, my lady. Don’t you worry about Diaval, here,” interrupts Diaval, smiling wryly at the amused look on her face. With little more than a wish, he turns from Man to Raven and caws, wisely waiting for Maleficent, Borra and Malora to ascend before following in the updraft left in their wake.

Flying with his Mistress has always been a pleasure the shape-changer refuses to take for granted, remembering the long years in which she had no wings at all. Up in the deep blue, stars above them and ground below them, Diaval eagerly joins the dance in the wind, Maleficent his guiding light – surprised to find exactly how easy it is for Malora to join them both. She fits in beside Diaval, following Maleficent’s path and it is _comfortable._

Like they’ve done it a thousand times before.

Alighting in Maleficent’s cave, where she built her nest, Diaval finds there is a sickening churn to his stomach as his mind takes him places he had not truly gone before. In Man-shape – not trusting his true self not to give away to Maleficent exactly what he thinks – Diaval stands in the entrance to Maleficent’s home, watching as Malora sneaks in at Maleficent’s back.

When he looks closer, he sees the similarities he saw before are not coincidental. Their feathers move the same, their wing-bones aligned _just_ in the right way so that they match, the moment Diaval looks. Their horns follow the same shape and their eyes…Diaval thought it just the magic of Dark Faeries they share, but no – Malora’s gifts mimic Maleficent’s.

They each ruffle their wind-swept wings, out of sync, but identically nonetheless. And Diaval knows.

“I do not advise that you seek your parents,” Maleficent says to the faery woman, like Malora has not already broken that rule, through no fault of her own. “It will bring you pain and hurts beyond which you yet conceive. They will not know you. They will not claim you.”

“I know,” replies Malora, her heart already breaking as Maleficent speaks. Diaval wonders who her father is – who gave her that beaky nose and those expressive eyebrows – for it is clear to him just whom her mother is. He sees it in her pointed cheeks and her wings and her horns.

Maleficent’s daughter is just as beautiful as her mother. It makes his heart hurt to see her.

“You may bed down in Diaval’s spot.” Maleficent offers her Diaval’s bed for when he is Man-shaped inside her home, glancing his way upon speaking. “He won’t mind.”

“Of course not,” he croaks, wincing at Maleficent’s raised eyebrow. Her silence speaks volumes as to how much she noticed – and how she will undoubtedly assail him with questions, once Malora is no longer in their presence. “I’ll just have to share with you then, won’t I?”

“It seems you must,” says Maleficent, as if she could not transfigure him into Raven-shape with but a thought. Diaval catches Malora looking between them in apprehension, most likely confused as to the close relationship they share, wondering where her father is.

 _Do not worry, fledgling,_ he thinks as he climbs into Maleficent’s nest in the deepest part of the cave. _I know my place. I am her loyal servant, forever and that’s that._

But as Maleficent joins him, her wing hiding him from the world, Diaval wonders – blood pounding through his chest so hard it hurts – if he truly knows his place at all.


	2. Chapter 2

The real problem of being the eternal servant, Diaval has found, is not the orders or even a lack of respect from his Mistress. Maleficent has never disrespected him, not really. Disagreed with him, perhaps, not taken his advice into account, oh, that happened many times – but disrespect against his beautiful self? No, respect is not something she so idly forgets. It comes from a lifetime of being one with nature, the Guardian of a land where every living thing is equal under her purview. Diaval has never felt taken for granted, under Maleficent’s rule.

The _actual_ problem of being the eternal servant is that _others_ take him for granted.

Aurora herself does it. Diaval is Maleficent’s willing tool and he was the one to interact with their fledgling. They kept her fed, but he was the one to feed her. Maleficent broke her curse, but he was the one who rocked her to sleep when she was a baby. Aurora, his Queen of Eternal Spring, looks at him and only sees an extension of her mother, for all that she calls him by his true name. And Diaval has never begrudged her that, for all he has fleetingly wished she would act his fledgling for true and call him _father._

The denizens of the Moors are even less circumspect. When they talk to him, they think they are talking to Maleficent – and they are, for that _is_ his job as her voice – but to the Moorfolk, Diaval may as well not even exist as a person. Pixies, witches, sprites and faeries alike share this view. Ironically, Borra is one of the few to see him differently, seeing him from a different perspective.

Though, considering that perspective is ‘rival’, Diaval takes that with a grain of salt.

Flying in his true form to where their newest resident holds court amongst the other Dark Fae, Diaval settles himself on a nearby rock, holding back his instinctual squawk when an unexpected updraft from an arriving faerie sends him half a foot into the air. He resettles, fully expecting to be ignored, hunger beginning to draw at his Raven belly. He’ll have to catch a worm or six, later.

“Your feathers are strange,” says one of the faerie nestlings, hands reaching to tug on long primaries. Diaval credits Malora for her patience as she crouches low, so the child not yet old enough to stand above her waist might see better. The nestling wastes no time in stroking the dark feathers without abandon, humming happily, saying, “They feel different, too.”

“I’m no ordinary faerie,” Malora says in a low voice, her confidence secure. It is not bragging – she is simply stating a truth, one she takes pride in. She reaches, guiding the little one’s wing around gently to compare them, the downy charcoal seeming small and underdeveloped compared to th glossy black. “But I _am_ older than you. See? I am full-grown, an adult of child-bearing age, while you are a precious nestling who hasn’t grown true wings, yet.”

“Hmm,” the young faerie hums, the surrounding elders watching closely with eyes of hawks. Diaval admires Malora for her behaviour with the child, not expecting her eyes to meet his, oh so very briefly. Her smile becomes wider, the corners of her eyes crinkling before she looks away, greeting another nestling.

Eventually, though, they are drawn away by their parents and Malora rises up, standing on equal ground with Shrike, the leader of the Jungle Fae. Her brightly coloured wings seem even more radiant by the darkened mirror in front of her.

“Borra has told of an order upon you by the Phoenix not to reveal your origins – but tell us,” Shrike says, encouraging, “Are there other flocks?”

“I cannot say,” replies Malora, shaking her head. “To reveal such information to you would be a lie of my own lips, for I do not know. My home is lost to me, as are the people I knew.”

Shrike’s disappointment is clear, though she nods in acknowledgement. “Your candour is welcome, here. I would not like to be told falsehood to keep a secret.”

“I will only lie to protect me and mine,” Malora says, voice firm. Diaval’s heart thuds in his chest, recognising Maleficent’s tone in her voice. “But that will be rare in itself. I sacrificed much, including myself and I only wish for peace in my new home. I already owe the Phoenix and Lord Diaval for their good welcome and I would make even with them, on that.”

Heads turn at the mention of his name. Diaval finally lets out that squawk, fluttering up, high above their heads before settling in the bare, outstretched branch of an oak tree. Malora watches him for precious moments more than the rest of the fae, who look back at her with acceptance.

Udo steps forth, standing by his leading brethren and holding out his arm. Malora takes it, hand cinching around his elbow. “A welcome to you, Malora, from those of the Tundra.”

“And from the Jungle,” says Shrike, Malora grasping her arm in turn and then turning to Ini, who stands in Borra’s place. The Desert Fae is less hasty to welcome her, but slowly, that welcome is made and Diaval rests easy, a part of him sighing in relief at the idea that Malora will be safe, here.

But yet another part of him bubbles to life in jealous, bitter resentment, when Diaval sights those feathers around her neck.

 _The daughter of Maleficent that she will never have,_ Diaval thinks, cawing loudly before fleeing. The headwinds take him high into the clear blue sky and Diaval wants _rain._ He wants a thunderstorm and a tornado – some worse weather that might necessitate a hasty exit to the boughs of a vacant tree or cave. Somewhere that Maleficent nor Malora might find him.

Diaval has moved on from his despair. Now, he is angry and full of putrid, covetous jealousy. For a child means a father – means a _suitor_ – who would gift Maleficent the bountiful joy that is Malora for a daughter. His mind screams at the thought. Who is worthy? Who would dare? Maleficent does not want for a partner nor a child of her own. Maleficent has Aurora. Maleficent has _Diaval_.

Of course, at that selfish thought, Diaval nearly drops out of the sky. It was a presumptuous thought. Yes, it is a thought that Diaval has had for three decades, now, but he has never _applied_ it to a situation before, let alone one like this.

He is Maleficent’s servant. He is no spurned lover or indeed a partner at all. He…he is just a bird. A gorgeous bird, but a bird nonetheless. Diaval laughs at himself, realising that he has fallen into a trap of his own making – has probably been within it for many years, now. This is what Borra was fighting. An unthought belonging. A selfish, possessive _claim_ that Diaval knows he can never make.

On the wind, he hears wingbeats. Hard, strong. Diaval turns his head and sees Borra himself, carrying a dark bundle against his chest. _Speak of the devil and he doth appear._ Borra’s eyes are hard as he gestures with his head to a clearing by the riverbed, that Diaval knows runs from the Crashing Falls, through the Emerald Glade all the way to the Pool of Jewels. He dips his wing and drops down, narrowly avoiding the sharp end of Borra’s horns as they foolishly move the same way. His heart pounds, realising with a start that he’d nearly lost his life to _Borra_ , of all people.

Upon reaching the riverbed, Diaval turns into his Man-shape, booted feet briefly struggling for purchase on the time-worn pebbles, sinking into the wet mixture of rock and dirt. Borra lands gently, lit by sunlight at his back and further casting his bundle into shadow. But Diaval does not care for Borra’s foraging.

“You nearly killed me! Maleficent would have your head if anything happened to me!” Diaval exclaims, half angry and half scared out of his many skins. Death has not been a fear of his for years, now and to be so rudely reminded brings other issues of his to the surface of his psyche. He remembers, abruptly, the dogs of the farmer who netted him and the fear he had, then, of being torn apart and eaten just as his sister was.

Borra is unusually quiet. “Raven,” he says, like it has not been a habit of nine years to greet him as _crow_ , hand cradling the dark edge of his burden. “Tell me of the faerie woman.”

Eyes shift, back and forth. Diaval steps back, mere inches from the trickling river. It is more a stream, in Diaval’s opinion. “I may not. Maleficent-”

“-banned the girl,” Borra interrupts. “She did not ban you. There is more to her story and I hold the proof of it,” he says, before finally revealing what he holds. His arms lower and suddenly, Diaval realises that the blackness is _wings_ – tiny wings, wings of a nestling or perhaps even a hatchling. The Raven edges forwards, watching the feathers unfurl to reveal – as he thought – a hatchling who only _might_ have the ability to walk. Pale skin, nubby horns…

“She looks like Malora,” Diaval says crassly, barely containing a curse. _Like Maleficent_. What was it Malora said she was? _An adult of child-bearing age._ His fingers itch, a warmth growing in his chest that is too strange to be ignored. Reaching out, he scoops the hatchling up out of Borra’s grasp, holding them – _her_ – close. An uneven, unexpected tuft of pale blonde hair is pressed flat against her head, the nature of sleeping forcing Diaval to guess at the colour of her eyes. Cradling the child close, Diaval asks Borra, “Where did you find her?”

“A silver wolf led me to her. I saw a Man in a crimson cloak in the dawn sun, then with my own eyes, witnessed his transformation into a wolf.” Borra drops his arms to his sides and had Diaval not been so focused on the hatchling in his arms, he might have realised the truth there and then. As it is, it takes the end of Borra’s tale for him to realise.

Borra clenches his fists, angry at the world. “I followed him deep into the forest and then on to the Field of Roses, where she laid in the earth, surrounded by thorns.”

Diaval barely tenses at all, his shoulders hitching as his breath catches – but even the slightest irregularity is enough to put Borra on edge.

“What?” The Dark Fae demands answers, eyes flashing with his anger, the worriment he holds for the child clear. “Why do you hold such a look on your face? What is so wrong with the Field of Roses?”

“A story,” says Diaval, cryptic for only a moment, before the urgent need to spread information to his ally takes him. “There was once a terrible battle there, not so long in the past of the Moors – but from barely a year after Maleficent was born. She only knew of it from stories that the pixies told her and I learnt more of it from them, than I did her. A Dark Fae, Maleficent’s father, fought a being only known as the Red Cap, who spilt so much blood in the Field of Roses during their battle that the white petals of all the roses there turned crimson. It is a bad omen to find a child there, Borra and an even worse one for the Red Cap himself to lead you there.”

For the longest of moments, there are only the sounds of the Moors. The river runs, the wind blows through the leaves and branches of the trees and even the breaths they take are quiet, amongst the gentle noise.

Then:

“Tell me of the woman.”

In his arms, the hatchling yawns prettily, snuggling against his chest and Diaval can’t bear the thought of her. He imagines Aurora in her place and for the barest second, he sees her – but Aurora never would have had wings or horns or pointed fingernails. Diaval lets instinct guide him and then ignores it, because instinct tells him to bring the child back to Maleficent and that means giving her back to Borra for the journey.

Instead, he tests his Mistress’ trust in him and holds onto the hatchling for as long as he can.

“She is Maleficent’s daughter, from a future no longer possible. Malora was inflicted with some kind of magical poison and it would have killed her and everything around her – or at least, she implied it. She used what magic she still possessed to take herself out of events, but ended up here.” Diaval changes his grip on the hatchling, before forcing himself to hand her back to Borra. “A hole created must be a hole filled, apparently. She won’t be born again by Maleficent in this world, because she already exists.”

The Desert Fae absorbs his words, resettling the child against his chest, more gentle than Diaval has ever seen him before. “I understand,” he says in a low, grieving voice, as if Diaval had told him that someone was dead rather than they’d never exist. “My condolences.”

“For what?” Diaval asks, suspicious and confused. Borra’s frown matches his own as the two males stare at each other, unwilling to speak any more.

Only when the hatchling wriggles against Borra’s chest, does conversation resume, the faerie shaking his head. “We shall go to our people,” says Borra, for some reason including Diaval in his assessment. When Diaval’s frown only deepens, Borra bares his teeth, eyes bright with something Diaval has never seen before.

It looks like defeat. But that’s none of Diaval’s business, he thinks, no matter how curious he is.

“Come along, crow,” Borra lifts his chin in challenge, wings stretching outwards. “The sun is rising and the day moves onwards.”

 _“Raven_ ,” Diaval corrects cockily, transforming into his Raven shape without further ado. Together, they fly, travelling through the skies to find Maleficent and her people, finding them in the clearing he left – sat opposite Malora with their golden magics entwined. It swirls around them in a cascade, falling off the ends of their wings and bringing verdant life to the ground around them.

 _“CAW!”_ He croaks, catching their attention as he and Borra circle down gently, taking Man-shape just in time to kneel for his Mistress, staff in hand. “My lady. There is news.”

“News?” Maleficent asks, shining eyes caught on him long enough he sees them fade to their usual honey-gold. Diaval still rests in genuflexion as Borra approaches, giving the Raven-Man their prize. His Mistress murmurs to herself, magic retreating from dandelions and daffodils alike, violets bending their necks as daisies open to the sun. “A baby?”

“Baby?” echoes Malora, before she jerks forwards onto her knees, hand reaching out for the child. “Show me!”

There is a command to her voice that Diaval cannot disobey. He turns the hatchling so her face is visible, bending the delicate bones of her wings for better view. Malora makes a noise he can only describe as _wanting_ , her fingers brushing the downy feathers, which in the bright sunlight look paler than before, almost the black-grey of a raven hatchling.

Her voice trembles. “It is my Briar. Where did you find her?”

 _Briar,_ Diaval thinks, recalling the shape of a rose and all its thorns. “Somewhere she should not have been, led to us by a being who should not roam.”

“Diaval?” Maleficent cuts in, saying his name like a question, waiting for him to explain. As he gives the hatchling to her mother, Diaval struggles to find the words – something Maleficent sees, her gaze softening in the way it only ever does for those that belong to her. “You should give your news, Diaval, or I might think you have been dramatic for nothing.”

“There is no drama in me today,” says Diaval, wishing she would not soften. “Borra found her in the Field of Roses, led there by the Red Cap himself.”

His words do not concern the Dark Fae around them, but there are many other Moorfolk here, watching and listening, that hear the words _Red Cap_ and scream, calling to their kin and whispering voraciously, loudly, about how it cannot be true.

Udo asks, “Who is this infamous Red Cap?”

“A being of immense power, whom I have never had the courtesy of meeting,” says Maleficent. She looks to Borra, demanding an answer of him. “What did he do?”

“He was Man, then a silver wolf with eyes of red,” Borra replies, crouched among his kin and bearing witness to the proceedings with stony eyes. “It led me to your Field of Roses, where your bird says there was once a battle.”

“Yes, a bloody battle,” agrees Maleficent, glancing to the three pixies – or the three idiots, as she might usually refer to them – in curiosity. “I was but a nestling at the time. The Red Cap fought my father in a vicious battle, magic against magic, claw against claw. My father died that day. I only know what I have been told.”

And so, Diaval expects the pixies to mutter between themselves and reveal a vital clue; except then the forgotten element speaks, the hatchling Briar still asleep in her arms.

“But your father is not dead.”


End file.
